Blessed are the forgetful; for they get the better even of their blunders
So I just finished watching this movie, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and it got me thinking. If I could erase any one person from my own life, who would it be?
The first name that popped into my head was His. I could do without those 18 months of my life, I thought. I figured, if I erased him I would have saved myself nearly two years of damage repair. Go figure.
It's true He was cruel and inconsiderate and all the things I didn't want to believe He was, but now I see everything for what it truley was. I was seventeen, an emotional basket case but something new and beautiful and undefined and completely fucked up. We were a trainwreck waiting to happen; it's been hard to admitt there is no fault here because we deserved eachother. Time is a double edged sword; it provides context and clarity whether you want to see things as they truley are or not.
I remember a lot of things about Him that I'd rather forget, even to this day. I'd rather forget the time He left me at home alone while He trapsed off to Australia. I'd rather forget the time that He pawned me off on His best friend while I knew deep down that He was out fucking his ex. I'd rather forget the time that He called me from somewhere on the road, presumably coked out of his mind, and proceeded to tell me I was a stupid cunt and then hang up on me. I didn't hear from him for a week and a half and then when he got home it was like nothing had ever happened. Asshole. And I'd really like to forget the time that I found all of His pictures of Her, and I was so angry that I screamed out loud and I left and never came back. All of these things would be better if they vanished, I thought.
There honestly is no anger here in my heart for Him anymore. I've forgiven Him, but I'd still be happier if He never existed. Those little deaths people put you through may subside, but they never go away. I soon realized though, erasing someone is not the wonderdrug I initially thought it would be.
I thought if He never existed then I'd never have felt that heady rush that I flowed through me when I met him for the first time. I'd never have left home and tried to strike out on my own, I would still be afraid. And worst of all, I'd still be that seventeen year old girl begging to be accepted and taking any shit she was spoonfeed so He would love her. I guess even the worst trainwrecks have their purpose.
This exercise in futility is kind of like the time I was six or seven and I decided that I didn't want to breathe anymore. Not that I wanted to be dead, but that the very act of breathing was just too much work and not worth the effort. For a brief second I despised the very act, so I tried to force myself to stop. It lasted about five minutes and then I cried because I was frustrated. But after that my mother made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and all of a sudden I was happy again.
Well, memories even the biggest and baddest ones are like trying to stop breathing. You don't really want them to die, you just want them to stop hurting so much, so you try to stop thinking about them, to cut them out. But after awhile you realize you can't. And you cry. And then someone or something comes along, like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, that puts things into context. And all of a sudden those big bad memories aren't really either anymore. They are like dust, or the wind; a petty nuisance, but completely manageable.
And when all is said and done, if you sift through the bad thoughts a few tiny good ones fall into the palm of your hand. You carry them in your pocket, bittersweet reminders that if you don't remember, much like if you don't breathe... you die.
The first name that popped into my head was His. I could do without those 18 months of my life, I thought. I figured, if I erased him I would have saved myself nearly two years of damage repair. Go figure.
It's true He was cruel and inconsiderate and all the things I didn't want to believe He was, but now I see everything for what it truley was. I was seventeen, an emotional basket case but something new and beautiful and undefined and completely fucked up. We were a trainwreck waiting to happen; it's been hard to admitt there is no fault here because we deserved eachother. Time is a double edged sword; it provides context and clarity whether you want to see things as they truley are or not.
I remember a lot of things about Him that I'd rather forget, even to this day. I'd rather forget the time He left me at home alone while He trapsed off to Australia. I'd rather forget the time that He pawned me off on His best friend while I knew deep down that He was out fucking his ex. I'd rather forget the time that He called me from somewhere on the road, presumably coked out of his mind, and proceeded to tell me I was a stupid cunt and then hang up on me. I didn't hear from him for a week and a half and then when he got home it was like nothing had ever happened. Asshole. And I'd really like to forget the time that I found all of His pictures of Her, and I was so angry that I screamed out loud and I left and never came back. All of these things would be better if they vanished, I thought.
There honestly is no anger here in my heart for Him anymore. I've forgiven Him, but I'd still be happier if He never existed. Those little deaths people put you through may subside, but they never go away. I soon realized though, erasing someone is not the wonderdrug I initially thought it would be.
I thought if He never existed then I'd never have felt that heady rush that I flowed through me when I met him for the first time. I'd never have left home and tried to strike out on my own, I would still be afraid. And worst of all, I'd still be that seventeen year old girl begging to be accepted and taking any shit she was spoonfeed so He would love her. I guess even the worst trainwrecks have their purpose.
This exercise in futility is kind of like the time I was six or seven and I decided that I didn't want to breathe anymore. Not that I wanted to be dead, but that the very act of breathing was just too much work and not worth the effort. For a brief second I despised the very act, so I tried to force myself to stop. It lasted about five minutes and then I cried because I was frustrated. But after that my mother made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and all of a sudden I was happy again.
Well, memories even the biggest and baddest ones are like trying to stop breathing. You don't really want them to die, you just want them to stop hurting so much, so you try to stop thinking about them, to cut them out. But after awhile you realize you can't. And you cry. And then someone or something comes along, like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, that puts things into context. And all of a sudden those big bad memories aren't really either anymore. They are like dust, or the wind; a petty nuisance, but completely manageable.
And when all is said and done, if you sift through the bad thoughts a few tiny good ones fall into the palm of your hand. You carry them in your pocket, bittersweet reminders that if you don't remember, much like if you don't breathe... you die.